Scorched Earth Policy@Scearpo
A great friend of mine once described men as unfathomably terrifying automatons in the eyes of women. Street Don (for the OGs who know) spoke of the average man bursting through doors, stomping the ground, and operating at a speed and force which could crush any woman into dust.
To a woman, men are like wild animals or rogue factory machines. We command incomprehensibly higher levels of explosive strength and terrifying speed. We consume amounts of mass that would split your gut open and kill you, simply out of amusement and mild hunger. Left to our own devices, we play raucous games until they grow beyond simulation and wipe out entire civilizations. We were born to be killed and we're descended from those who refused to die.
Such is the disparity between genders. We are entirely a different species from women. We cannot comprehend the world they live in, one where they depend on subterfuge, charm, and social code layered in complexities beyond our understanding.
Such the same, the woman cannot comprehend the world of the man. Man and all men burrow in the comfort of trenches built by ancestors, tunnels and sluices of ritualistic behaviors meant to shelter us from ourselves in the great open killing fields of altercation.
To be a man is to learn subconscious mechanisms for survival. Many modern men don't even understand the deeper reasoning behind why they naturally do things a certain way. It's easy to piece together the arithmetic of hunter-gatherer instincts for things like physical competition or displays of machismo, but many would be fascinated to understand how important seemingly superficial, performative, or even absurd social gestures are for upholding the biological health of mankind.
To be a woman is to huddle amongst hens for warmth and protection. The sisterhood is a domed city in the radioactive wasteland, a collective at macroscale which contains fierce competition within. Womankind looks up in solidarity when the acid rain and meteors pelt the sky, but only for brief moments before scurrying through the labyrinth of treacherous status climbing and social signalling games. The female killing blow is akin to shoving the runts of the litter out of the trough to starve, their daggers are subconsciously thrust in all directions.
To be a man is to enter the wasteland itself for vast periods of time. The elements are merciless and the skin must be hardened into a chitin shell. A man swallows sewer water laden with heavy metal and diseased ash every time he faces a million microrejections a day, processing it into nutrients and shitting out defensive spite.
A man experiences varying degrees of turbulence, learning that fairness is the false promise delivered by those who have no stake or familiarity with the great game that dictates the flow of life itself. He is exposed to new thresholds of psychological pain throughout his entire life without recourse, only hardening himself to numbness.
Men learn very quickly what it means to be inherently worthless in a vacuum. Women are incapable of this feeling because they have inherent value by nature of being a woman. A woman without prospects or personality can still garner attention any moment she wishes should she choose to give up her sacred stockpile of discretion.
Men sometimes overlook that doing so isn't easy, trivial, or healthy for women to do. But women overlook that despite the debasing nature of acting out of desperation, they still have the option. It is an emergency escape button that men will never get to have. A woman who becomes desperate simply transforms into a pick-me or a whore. A man who becomes desperate can either become a rapist or die alone, neither of which are viable options to the sentient.
Men burn their ships at landing the moment they are born. They are forced to contend with the inescapable truth that they are worth nothing except for what they can accomplish, conquer, steal, or cobble together for themselves. Men are inherently expendable and except for a few fortunate himbos who were set for life, they know it.
The uninitiated and the inphallic will scoff at these descriptions like a dramatization of the mundane.
Plump dismissive wives summoning imaginary gotchas about men being wimps when they get sick.
Indignant latte slurping office drones claiming their own struggles diminish the possibility of others experiencing turmoil.
Clueless college princesses and sallow waitresses.
Single mothers and fatherhating molestation victims.
Exhausted post-partum birth pain and period cramps.
Crying in the mirror, stressing out over makeup, expectations, implications, confusions, judgement, shame, insecurity, rejection; all of the follies of female existence summoned like an army of stone golems standing against the exigent threat of feeling empathy for the primordial enemy.
I make no claim that women don't have their own burdens, but as this crying FTM troon and so many other fringe experiments have demonstrated, women are absolutely obliterated when exposed to 1% of the male experience. We are the anglerfish who occupy the crushing depths and total darkness of the deepest parts of the ocean. Surviving, withstanding, persisting.
What's most disturbing is that after enough growth, men grow a taste for loneliness. Eventually they crave it like a rare salt in a barren crag, siphoning whatever moments of peaceful nothingness they can find amongst the tumultuous humdrum of family and work life.
We seek solitude when we have adjusted too comfortably to companionship. When a man gets a momentary break from his family, gets left by his girlfriend, or takes a lone trip away from home, he feels a spark of electricity in the pit of his core. He feels the wind on his skin and an animalistic reprieve from a weight he did not fully understand he was carrying. He says to himself, "I am alone. I am alive."
The feeling is alien because to be alone is to die. Banishment was one of the most horrific things a paleolithic could experience, certain slow miserable death. And yet we covet the truly lone man as the ultimate heroic archetype, free from adhering to the will of anyone, beholden only to himself and the merciless wild. We fantasize about endless deserts, rock wastelands, arctic tundra, empty cities stretching for millions of miles to climb through for an eternity.
We dream of being shoved into gray metal crevices in the underbellies of forgotten starships, drifting into the space between galaxies as time rips past comprehension separating us from everything that was ever human by millions of lightyears and thousands of centuries. Young men will create fantasies of dying in war from movies they've watched and stories they've read. Old men who have known war will denounce these ideations while forever harboring their experiences as the most defining moment of their lives.
A mother looks into the eyes of her children and feels boundless love and supernatural affinity for them in a way she's never felt about anything before.
A son looks into his fathers eyes and sees a strange, faintly glimmering stare he cannot fully comprehend, feeling it means something but he cannot read what it says.
The father's stare is the future. A long path of sweat, blood, pain, and triumph waiting to swing itself into his son's chest like a sledgehammer. His son will know total desolation.
The taste of blood in his mouth from a freshly struck nose.
The torment of a thousand paper-thin nagging bureaucrats crushing him for the sin of existing throughout his entire education.
The government who robs him of his hard earned bounty in exchange for trying to recruit him into dying wastefully for the interests of parasites.
The reckless hateful cruelty of a scorned love, half wanton from a clueless girl, half inflicted on himself by unchecked projections.
The sinking emptiness of wasted sloth compiling around to suffocate him in shame like a shrine of unsorted refuse in a smelly bare room.
The stale hours in the dead of early morning in a parking lot of a gas station triggering the hairs on the back of his head like an antelope hearing a twig crunch.
The looming dread of responsibility, failure, evaporating bloodline, and decaying society all swirling into a gargantuan tempest blocking out the sun and enshrouding him into total hopeless darkness until he learns to wield his anger so brutally that he self immolates into a dense burning star to carve out his own path.
The promise of freedom dangling on the periphery of his vision as he claws his way out from under the ruins.
The father sees a river of blood far beyond the horizon waiting for his son to drown in. He knows there is nothing he can do except teach him to swim, like his father taught him, and like his father's father taught him, and so on and so on and so on.
The father looks into his son's eyes and knows that one day he will die. He has thought about death every single day of his life in some way or another. He knows that there will come a day where he is turned into dust and until then he must give his son everything he can to survive this world as he survived. He knows that it will crush his son beyond comprehension and become a life defining scar for him to hide from loved ones like all the others.
This is the way of man. Death is what it means to be a man. The strongest and hardest of men face true death. The average still know death as a shadow inflicting its essence onto the mundane actions of day to day life. The weakest of men hide from death, perfuming it and painting pretty colors on its face while distracting themselves with idleness and consumption. But all men know death, whether they understand it or not.
Woman's inherent purpose is to bring life to this earth.
Man's inherent purpose is to take it away.
These are the roles we have occupied throughout the entirety of existence, the gatherer and the hunter.
Attempting to cross the sacred biological line brings suicidal misery to those who attempt it. Beyond the obvious signs such as overly trimmed eyebrows and androgynous soft round faces, FTM's reveal themselves through displays of tears and torment when they get a true glimpse of being man.
It's an exceptionally cruel thing to do to yourself, playing life on hardmode and you don't even have the controller to move properly. Entering the gladiator's arena with no weapon to defend yourself and no crowd to cheer even if you somehow win.
No amount of tasteful Ed Hardy font tattoos and pullover hoodies will protect your soft untempered body and fragile attention driven psychology from the challenges men don't even consciously realize exist. You are alone in the wasteland and you are going to die very quickly from exposure, and we will pick your carcass clean for bone marrow.
